Page 21 of The Meaning Of You

He squeezed gently. “If you ever need to talk, you’ve got my number. Use it.”

I fell into his soft smile, and that razor-sharp pain in my chest dulled a little, just enough to know I wouldn’t be calling Madigan Church to talk... ever. He was far too dangerous.

Besides, Iwantedthe pain. Iwantedto hurt. Iwantedto drown in my memories and my guilt until I couldn’t fucking breathe. What Ididn’twant was Madigan’s green eyes offering meanykind of solace or lifeline.

And so, I took a deep breath and said, “Thank you.”

Then I committed that gentle face and those pretty eyes to memory and headed for the door.

CHAPTER FIVE

December—one month later

Madigan

A heavy sighcame from the vicinity of Gazza’s bench at my back. He was working on an eighteenth-century book of maps which had challenged his patience all day. But it wasn’t the only culprit, apparently. “Jesus, Madigan, you’ve been staring at that Virgil Finlay dust jacket for almost an hour. It’s not going to repair itself, you know?”

“Mmm.” I ran my gloved finger along the jagged tear in the brightly coloured illustration, only dimly aware of his words.

A few seconds later he appeared at my shoulder. “Hellooooo?” He waved a hand in front of my eyes. “Anyone home?”

I blinked and met his gaze. “Sorry. I can’t seem to concentrate this afternoon.”

Gazza huffed. “No kidding. Why don’t you call it a day?”

“I can’t,” I protested. “The collector?—”

“Can wait,” he finished. “Come on, Madigan. He’s had the thing for over ten years. He’ll survive another day or two. Better that than you work on it half-baked.”

“I’m not working on it half-baked, whatever the hell that means in this context. I’m just... thinking.” Regardless, I laid the dust jacket down and stepped away. Because Gazza was right. I’d told him the same thing a million times. The art of restoration demanded one hundred percent focus. If you fucked up a historic document, you didn’t get a second chance.

Gazza leaned his back against the book press and studied me, his long legs looking even longer in a pair of painted-on black jeans topped by a black tee and a brightly coloured Japanese-style yukata, billowing almost to the floor. Twenty-first-century Tom Ford meets sixth-century Nara period. So very Gazza. “Okay, what’s up?” He eyed me sternly. “This isn’t like you. And don’t give me any bullshit.”

“Nothing is up.” I ignored his tapping foot as I slid the dust jacket into its folder and set it aside. More foot tapping ensued and I rolled my eyes. “Seriously? I’m a grown man, Gazza. I don’t have to check in with you.”

He huffed irritably. “That’s debatable. Is this about the guy that died? The one who’d been in a coma. You’re friends with his husband, Nate?”

“Nick,” I corrected.

“Mmm.” Gazza studied me. “And is this Nick... hot?”

I rolled my eyes. “Yes, you pervert, not that it’s any of your business. Or mine, as it happens. The man has just lost his husband, for fuck’s sake.”

Gazza smiled. “Just getting my facts straight—or not straight, as it turns out.”

I ignored him. “And Davis was in a persistent vegetative state, not a coma.”

Gazza raised his hands. “Sorry. Either way, you’ve been about as useful as tits on a bull since the funeral, and that’s being generous. He was the same age as you, right? Is this some kind of mid-life mortality-crisis thing? Come on, talk to Papa. You know you want to.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Papa’sgonna get himself fired if he keeps this up.”

Gazza laughed like that was the funniest thing he’d heard in a while.

“You’re impossible.” I rolled my stool back from my workbench and began tidying up. “Davis was three years younger than me as it happens, not that I knew him. It was pretty gutting to sit through the service knowing what Nick had been through and how confusing it all had to be—relieved that your husband was finally at peace while knowing at the same time that it meant he was gone forever.”

Gazza’s half-smile faded into a deep frown. “Yeah, I can’t imagine.”

“Kind of puts your own problems in perspective.” I disposed of my cleaning cloth into the laundry hamper, then returned to my bench and switched off my work light, putting my face conveniently in shadow.

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